Mr Darcy Is Secretly A Raver
by The Hart and Hound
Summary: Roxas managed to forget about his inhuman terror of roofies and physical contact with cuddle puddle minions for a moment. [Raving, with benefits. AxelRoxas. AU.]


Title: Mr. Darcy Is Secretly A Raver

Author: tsubaki-hana

Series: Kingdom Hearts

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix and Disney.

Summary: Roxas managed to forget about his inhuman terror of roofies and physical contact with cuddle puddle minions for a moment. (Raving, with benefits. AxelRoxas. AU.)

Notes: For the Kingdom Hearts Kink Meme.

* * *

To say that Roxas liked raves was a safe assumption. To say that Roxas liked raves at freaking 2 in the morning in the middle of a desert where at any moment he may step on a cactus or scorpion in his glowsticking trials was perhaps a stretch of the imagination and Roxas' tolerance for stupidity. Suffice to say, he didn't have much.

Nor was he particularly fond of cacti.

It was also a stretch of the imagination on Roxas' part to imagine himself sitting at the base of one of the turntable platforms in a shuddering mess as this crazy ass tripper rubbed against him like he was the couch in one of those corny Febreeze commercials. As it was, he was not willing to think that his cologne was anything but foul smelling (proportionate to the cheapness of the product) and altogether overthrown by sweat.

Nonetheless, here was this bony...something, muttering into his neck, practically begging him to touch him. The hand down his pants was particularly persuasive.

Let's recap.

Roxas was a glowsticking kid, which is to say, he liked going to the raves to dance, and possibly work off some of that anxiety that he felt from working in a bookstore where all of the customers were either retards or bookfags. (Being a bookfag himself, Roxas hated being outdone in his bookfaggotry, and was even less tolerant of them than the idiots. Probably read fan fiction, the bastards.) There was something very therapeutic about waving your arms about as though in the throes of a seizure or particularly fierce temper-tantrum.

When Hayner and Olette had called him about this venue, one that was in a location not to be announced until a few hours before the event, he had been skeptical. First off, and with full apologies to his friends, the ones that -weren't- a little bit secretive were absolutely out of the question, and said something about his friends' nighttime prowess. After all, he couldn't go to just any old rave where there would be an abundance of underage kids waiting for their parents to pick them up at curfew. ("I'm so totally beyond that," he reminded himself, looking at his false id. "I just needed to expand my horizons!")

Secondly, it was on a Tuesday night, and it was hard to imagine having to get up and go to a Trig class at 8 in the morning with full knowledge that this would be when he would amble home from a night of frantic arm-swinging, avoiding cuddle puddles, and disgusting, delicious IHOP pancakes.  
He closed at work, having had a fierce battle with an Austenite, and decided that if he didn't do something to cool off, he would spontaneously combust and take out the rest of the store with him. (He would be particularly careful to stand next to the manga section and hope that it would be destroyed beyond repair. That would show those 4 for 3 Viz kids a thing or two.)

He called Hayner.

Which was obviously a mistake.

Or else a really, epically good decision.

The sad part about living in Arizona was that unless you were in the northernmost climes of the state, you were doomed to dirt. Lots of uninteresting, boringly colored dirt. There were no trees, there were no noteworthy rivers, and above all else, anything off of I-10 meant that you had not much in the way of decent roads either. This meant that the secret venues for raves were always way out of the way, and always ended up in the mileage of your car increasing to insurmountable heights and questionable alignment of tires that fathers are bound to notice eventually.

Driving his mighty Toyota speed to a place that was behind not one, but two pitifully barren mountains, Roxas was beginning to doubt that his car would be able to get him, his friends, and 40 worth of cheap glowsticks and glow bracelets all the way to the rave, much less back home.

"We're going to die," Pence said in grave tones. "Or at least we're going to die when the car breaks down and we have to call someone's parents."

Roxas did not contradict this statement. Fortunately, Olette did for him.

"It's always like this!" she said, brushing her hair back and adjusting her aviator hat. (How indie of you, Roxas thought, thinking much better of his own Swiss Miss knitted monstrosity. Now that was a hat with character.) "At least all the good ones are. And just think, by the time we get there, it will be late enough that all the fun will begin!"

This all translated to the following: We always panic about nothing. The car has always survived. All raves are lame. We'll cross a huge amount of land and arrive in time for everyone to be stoned. Parking will be awful, and we'll have to walk for thirty minutes in addition to the two hour drive to get to this god-forsaken patch of farm. All the best E will already have been handed out. (This was for Olette and Hayner.) We will probably be dancing by ourselves and freeze to death while everyone has unter-speaker orgies. (This was for Roxas and Pence.)

Of course, by the time they did actually arrive, half of this had already come true. There was an infinite line of parked cars. Security patted them down for knives and jacked all of Hayner's weed. It was 15 degrees outside. Unter-orgies had commenced. A water bottle was 4 a pop.

Sometimes, Roxas wondered if his seizure-like glowsticking had more to do with the rave itself than his innate need to strangle Austenites.

Nonetheless, he drew forth his fancy iridescent glowsticks, suited up his arms with enough luminol to drive moths from several miles away to find him, and moved into the throng of remaining dancers. The hardcore table was always well-stocked with people that were just too cool for synthetic highs. (That, and it tended to be too loud for the cuddle puddles to muster at. There was no need to fry their brain and their ear drums at the same time, after all.)

The night was young (which is to say that it was actually very gone and into the early stages of morning), the bass was shaking his very marrow, and he had some stress-relief to work on.

He also had only a few hours before his cheap glow bracelets would stop doing their thing. It was very important to remain absolutely visible in the blacklights. Best get to it.

He had just worked up a good sweat when he began to notice that there were more people. This couldn't have been because there were more people arriving, since anyone who was going to come would be there by 3 in the morning or just say "fuck it". This had only one possible alternative: the rollers were beginning to stop rolling and gather some moss. And nothing good could come from grouchy people that were seeking out another lovely white tablet stamped with Jessica Rabbit and fancy monogrammed vowels.

They were thirsty, they were in need of another trip to Strawberry River, and they were bitchy. This was a unholy triumvirate which usually ended up in someone either getting in a precarious situation over the ownership of the remaining ecstacy available, or roofies.

Roxas was too manly to admit that as a slightly effeminate-looking male, he was mortally afraid of roofies. (And squids, but that was another subject entirely and would take a great deal of time to recount.)

At this point, Roxas would often beg Hayner and Olette to abandon their drug-induced groping and allow him to take them all somewhere acceptable, somewhere like IHOP, which was always welcomed by hungry, pancake-desiring wantons like themselves. If they could have a rave in an IHOP, Roxas thought, totally forgetting he was surrounded by cold, befuddled people, he very well may shoot off in his pants with no prior warning.

When an arm came around his waist and he felt someone grinding with him in his absent-minded glowsticking, he very nearly shot out of his shoes instead.

There was a precarious law that stated the rules and regulations of rave dancing etiquette. It had no name, nor any enforcement, but anyone who wasn't a complete asshole or tripping so hard he didn't know he had traded jackets with a hobo, was careful to abide by these rules. The clearest of these unspoken rules was the following: you should really ask before you start gyrating your unmentionables into someone's hip bone. It would lower violent crimes during and after raves by a great deal.

It was this, and only this that Roxas could think of when he was covertly joined by this faceless other. That was, until he felt a chin on his shoulder and that hand that had been tentatively on his hip shift under his shirt. This was a problem, and not just because it was unhygienic. A careful bubble of "don't touch me" was being popped, and Roxas was about five seconds away from aggravated assault.

"Hey, have you got any E?" asked said very-close-to-experiencing-battery stranger.  
Oh, well, he was just looking for a second round. Roxas momentarily forgave him. This lapse in judgement was obviously from the reassembling of the five brain cells remaining that this person...male...guy had. Roxas supposed that there was only so much you could do when you had just sent your internal endorphin regulators into overdrive.

"Sorry man, I haven't got any," he said, and figured this would clear up the whole situation.

"Just as well, the voice next to his ear said. "I think I've still got a few left over."

Roxas felt his pique rise some more. Of all the nerve! Roxas wasn't into the whole rolling-on-an-E scene, but he was still sympathetic enough to be offended for all the people that would eb mooched off of in their kindness to others. Why, he had plenty! What about those who had none and required some? It was fortunate that Roxas was such a generous and thoughtful soul, or else he would have to realize that he sounded like a moron. (This was of course because his own five remaining brain cells were reassembling from being knocked around in his epileptic dancing.)

But little did Roxas know, his hanger-on was a very kind soul indeed, and did not seek to get freebies from kindly and slightly stupid from exertion ravers, but to see who out there had none of the bounty and in turn give some to them. This was of course done in his own peculiar fashion, and with some secret, selfish intentions in mind.

"Dude, really, if you have some, don't go asking other people for it," Roxas said (or rather yelled; the music was loud), stopping his frantic movement altogether. He turned around, frowning. He would show this supreme bag of douche just how mean-spirited it was to take from others what you had already received.

Under the various colored and flashing lights, very little could be said about his hanger-on's coloring other than if in the safe light of an IHOP, it would likely be just as loud and obnoxious as their present location. But the face he saw was thin and smiling and not at all like the asshole he had decided that this guy was. He had thin lips and a broad smile, complete with shiny teeth.

Said shiny-teethed guy grinned wider. "Sorry princess, I was unaware that inquiring after others was a capital offense. Shall I take my leave now or after I bestow you with your gift?"

Gift? What gift? Roxas, while perhaps not the most curious of persons, looked at the grinning man with skepticism and interest. "If by gift you mean a water bottle filled with GHB, then I'll pass," he said with a frown and a quizzical brow.

That obnoxious-haired bastard had the nerve to laugh. "I like you, you funny," he said. "But no, GHB is not what I had in mind. The non-attentive sort of evening company are no fun at all. That, and I've got the feeling that you sleep like an angel and will look like a child."

"I do not," said Roxas. He was not pouting. Not.

"Yes you would," said (shouted) his compadre. "And then I'd get party vanned by the FBI for being a pedo bastard and have surprise buttsex in Buckeye, Arizona for the next five years. Even worse, I'd be catching."

Roxas quickly looked around to make sure no one was listening. This was taking an embarrassing turn, and in the wee hours of the morning, Roxas still had enough standards to not want to be remembered as part of the deuce Wild Pedo Roller and the Jail Bait Kid. (Ugh, what a horrible porn that would be, thought Roxas.)

"Are you always this charming, or do I just bring out the smiles in you?" asked Roxas, dancing a little bit to alleviate the 15 degree cold that was reminding him why it was important to keep moving. "And why do I always pick up the freaks?" This was said with indignation and was only met with more laughter.

"Talent, my darling ickle Hansel, talent. And now I will courteously ask you, like the debonair Errol Flynn that I truly am, if you would join me on the cleverly named dance-dirt."

Roxas rose an eyebrow. Not even on purpose. "Dance-dirt?"

"Arizona has no dance floors, my naive friend, only dirt. You surely saw miles of it while driving out here." Grinning man gestured to the surrounding area. "We had to call it something, and Larxene thought it was pretty freakin' awesome and obvious. She even pulled the punch she gave me afterwards a little."

"So what, you're staff at this?" Roxas asked (shouted in an inquiring manner).

"Not staff, just friends with most of them. Too much work to pull together a shindig like this, and I am lazy as fuck."

Roxas laughed, actually laughed in earnest at his hanger-on, unwitting guy-friend-thing. "Can you imagine scouting for the appropriate patch of God-forsaken land to do this thing? I mean, when does one decide that this patch of dryness will do?"

"It's like the Princess and the Pea. A true connoisseur of nighttime festivities will simply lay down and -feel- that this is the promised land. Again, lazy as fuck, and perhaps too casual a user of Arizona's frosty dance-dirtpiles." Clever-Hanger-On Man smiled, perhaps a little too slyly for Roxas' immediate taste, but he was too busy being amused to care.

"Speaking of fucking, want to?"

Alright, temporary natural high gone.

"Dude, talk about killing our rapport," said Roxas, nervous. Truth be told, he had halfway been wondering why this guy had essentially stood here hitting on him for this long anyway. "Where's my dinner and movie first?"

"If by dinner, you mean drugs, and by movie, you mean foreplay, I have both prepared and ready to go," said Roxas' amorous acquaintance. (He was determined to make up creative names for said man until he had a name...which on that point, he didn't even know this guy's name or if he was infested with crabs or something equally odious.) But he smiled, and smiled so kindly that Roxas' didn't think that he was wholly into this just for a wham, bam, thank you man.

And to what do I owe this honor?" he asked. For some reason, it seemed important, and he hoped he'd be able to hear it over the dj. "Surely it's not my obliging nature and desire to please."

"You're not having a good time," said the man, rolling a bony shoulder awkwardly. "And considering what a pain in the ass it is to get here and pay for all this dusty finery, it doesn't seem right. You shouldn't come out here pissed off by the drive and then go home tired and unhappy."

They stared at each other for a moment, the bass throbbing behind them, deafening and strong enough to be able to ignore the rest of the crowd around them. Maybe it was the lights, maybe it was the manipulation of sound, or maybe it was just 3 in the morning encroaching on Roxas' good sense, but Roxas actually considered it.

If he were honest, he wasn't having a good time. He came here to work off stress, which worked really well with spasmodic gyrating and arm waving to help him tire out. But in truth, it was all lights and magic and very little enjoyment for him to ferry people out here and then to a diner.

It was sad when he was more excited about blueberry syrup than the awesome set and crowd he was supposed to be going in to. (But it was good syrup, at least that much had to be said.)

"Prove it," he said, suddenly ruffled. His inner bookfag senses informed him he had just crossed into emofag territory and never would the two meet comfortably. He was a man, he could totally take this without waxing My Chemical Romance on everyone. "Prove to me that I'll enjoy this," he said, adjusting cheap bracelets. (And it said a lot about the quality of them that three of them were already dimming from obnoxious green and pink to a sad pastel variant.)

The thin man before him only smiled kindly and turned him around.

Roxas knew how to really dance when he wanted to. His spasmodic riotous jerking about was actually just a clever way to pop every joint in his body and exhaust him so that he could go to work for another without snapping and choking whoever next asked him when the next Harry Potter book came out. ("Jesus Christ, guys, IT'S OVER," Roxas had said on multiple occasions to different people. Honestly, he thought the hype for the last book might have put it in perspective for some people.) He had just never had the opportunity to do it before. After all, grinding looked absurd when you were by yourself, sort of like those cat macros involving invisible bikes and cheeseburgers. Roxas refused to be like a cat macro.

Whoever the crazy man he had agreed to have amorous relations with was, he certainly was not an invisible bike, and appeared to be quite skilled in making Roxas reconsider the whole idea of dancing socially.

"So it's like this," said the skinny-man-of dubious-origin, one thin hip pushing against Roxas' backside, sliding, "you tell me if you want it after this, or I'll go back to rubbing myself up against a turntable like an idiot. I'm gentleman enough for that."

Said gentleman took a tug and a long lick over the top of Roxas' ear, one hand on his hip and the other in his hair, and Roxas thought it a wonder that he didn't come all over himself right then and there.

It said something for nameless suitor behind him that he was so good at this whole primal dance thing. Roxas rolled his body and felt the lights instead of saw them, so great was his pleasure when thin arms wrapped around him (octopus ancestry, he thought, suddenly fond of the aquatic terror) and ground the enjoyment out of him with almost no effort. But rather than the hand that menaced his hip, it was the arm that wrapped around his shoulders and chest that he felt best, his heartbeat frantic and strong against it. It was almost embarrassing how strong it was beneath his skin.

"Close your eyes," a voice said into his ear, and Roxas managed to forget about his inhuman terror of roofies and physical contact with cuddle puddle minions. He shut his eyes and almost felt himself take off from the ground. He had never noticed just how tall his partner was until he was forced to turn and hide his face against the cigarette scented and threadbare coat that was there.

The rocking perhaps embarrassed him at first, because he could count on fingers and toes how many times people had walked in on him doing the selfsame act by himself, and faced with his sister Namine's incredibly wide eyes and horrified expression, it was hard for him to ever enjoy himself anymore. But his face was hiding now, and even if he did smell like menthol lights and cold winter air, Roxas didn't mid so much that someone was hiding him from his embarrassment.

It wasn't so bad to just rock there, hands gliding along his back. He was more than happy to have someone of octopus ancestry around for the moment.

So caught up in this business, Roxas hardly noticed that he had crossed the line of enjoying himself to full out "I am a randy boy, please to be raping me", which if he had been aware of, he would have either vehemently denied or not cared because, woah damn, life's good right now. In fact, the more that Roxas forgot that he was in a sexual bargain with an obvious ass pirate, the more he allowed himself to have a good time.

Which was what said ass pirate had been aiming for in the beginning. He had made as much clear, but Roxas had partially forgot that words were spoken. Or were capable of being said.

It was with a surreal sense that Roxas allowed himself to be hauled against the plastic of one of the speakers, still wrapped around his dance partner as though not moved at all, and allowed further still for said partner to sneak his hand from his hip and into his pants with little to no navigational issues, like protesting sweet faced Roxas.

Roxas would not lie. He could not tell a lie, or rather, his current state of being would not allow him to lie in the face of observation. He was hard as a rock. He was so hard he thought that The Thing from the Fantastic Four, even with all his genetic mutation and scaly hide, could not compare with his own state of arousal. Roxas mostly could not lie for the sheer reason that the questing hand from his hip had a rather firm grip on the evidence of this.  
Fortunately, he was far gone enough to realize that this was happening, and not care all the same. It was like that exam in American History, only this looked like it might end with a rosy afterglow and pancakes at IHOP instead of a nervous breakdown and ultimate acceptance of complete failure.

His breathing rasped, his hips were viciously pushed against his partner's own, and he could only just reach around those thin shoulders and grab a handful and mint-scented hair. He buried his head between that hair and a soft neck, biting his lip so hard he felt it split.

He had clever hands, this man, and Roxas was hardly one to say no to such satisfaction. "What a pretty face you have when you're like this," said the man, and smiled again. "Not at all as grouchy as when you came in here."

"Shut up, asshole." Roxas gasped, trembling.

Gasping almost as much as Roxas, the man said, "Close but not quite. Axel. My name is Axel. Remember to say it for me." Another jerk of those soft hands. "Say my name when you come," he said, lips against Roxas' cheek. Roxas could hardly say no to such persuasion.

His heaving chest matched the one he was held against, and between the pain of the bloodied lip, the hand that was making good work of his desire, and the smell of sweet mint, he arched and gasped his completion so strongly that he had to wrap his legs around Axel's hips like a vice. That name burst from his mouth so suddenly and harshly that he was afraid he had been heard by the whole entirety of the rave. It was possibly the only thing that would have embarrassed Roxas more than his little sister coming in on his bathroom ritual.

"Shit," Axel cursed, holding Roxas' head against his shoulder, cradled between neck and collarbone. He shuddered, almost as much as Roxas did, and that was when Roxas discovered that he wasn't the only one that enjoyed himself. "Shit," he said again, head slumped against the plastic frame of the sound system.

Well then, score one for Roxas' sexual prowess with vocal chords and hips alone. He would have strutted were he not so indisposed at the moment.

It was fortunate that despite the loudness of the bass and the general inhospitality of the greater hardcore house and trance floor that cuddle puddles seemed to form all the same. Even if there weren't, there would have to be an unofficial one now. Roxas had come so hard that there was no way he could have stood, much less unwrapped his legs from around Axel. Axel himself, in all his bony glory, had slowly but surely started slumping toward the ground.

It was after release that Roxas was suddenly able to focus more clearly on his unintended lover of the night. He was thin, yes, very fragile looking, but sturdy like wire and just as long and straight when standing. Red, his hair would be red in the sunlight. A strobe light passed through the shadow of it, turning it white and orange and vermillion. His eyes were closed, but Roxas, in a romantic fit that he thought he only experienced after a second reading of Catcher in the Rye, thought that surely his eyes would be green.

And obnoxious. Obnoxious like the Austenite that bought that monstrosity of a fanfiction that dared call itself literature. Obnoxious because said Austenite had been a tall redhead with green eyes that smiled entirely too much and came in just to irritate him. He was sure of it. Obnoxious like obnoxious Austenite because this -was- the obnoxious Austenite.

"Holy shit," Roxas said, with as much post release feeling he could muster. "I mean, HOLY SHIT." He could feel the smirk rather than see it. That bastard had known from the start. "Do you understand the level of HOLY SHIT that this stands on? And before you get clever and ask me if you're really that good, it has nothing to do with that and more to do with a 20 percent off coupon that was expired and you insisted wasn't."

"Do be quiet, Miss Bennet," said Axel "Try being content for a moment."

Once Roxas recovered from being called Miss Bennet, he demanded pancakes. He would need blueberry syrup and greasy bacon to make sense of this. And regain his honor. Being called a name from a book he reviled was more than he could handle.

Angry seizure dancing was eminent. Once he could walk without shaking at the knees.

* * *

A/N: I had IHOP last night. It was good. :D


End file.
